


In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith

by WritingQuill



Series: (30) Days of Johnlock [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Angst, Family, Funeral, Gen, John-centric, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:35:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Day one: Holding hands</p><p>At John's mother's funeral, Sherlock presents a source of comfort. </p><p>(reposted because of formatting issues)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this chapter is from Elizabeth Barrett Browning's Sonnet 43, 'How I Love Thee'

It was raining. Fat drops fell upon the mourners’ shoulders, thumping as they hit the ground and umbrellas and the wooden bearings of the coffin that was about to be lowered into the ground. They were sad too, mourning such great loss. The priest praised the Dead, talking of celebration of life instead of the sadness that came from passing. Harry Watson sobbed quietly as Clara stood by her like a stone, clearly waiting to pick up the pieces. 

John Watson didn’t. He was as stoic as ever, his shoulders square and chin up. He refused to allow himself to cry. His mother would hate it if he cried. So he didn’t. And he was only present in body anyway, his mind miles away, remembering her gentle smile, her stern pursed lips when she was angry, her soothing hands when he was hurt. He remembered her looking to frail and small on that hospital bed when the disease started to take her away from them. But he never allowed himself to cry. She would hate it if he cried. 

And Sherlock stood beside him, because he was a good friend, not because he cared for Mrs Watson. He had never actually met her, but John always said the most wonderful things about his mother. John loved her so much, and Sherlock felt the need to stand by his friend in this mourning period. If anything because he still didn’t feel like he himself had been forgiven for ‘dying’. 

The priest finished his speech and the casket was lowered, slowly, painfully, just as the cancer that had taken Mrs Watson away from her children. Silent cries were heard, along with Harry’s sobs that had turned louder and louder. By this point, Clara had an arm around her, whispering soothing words into her ear that were of no help. 

After it was all done, the crowd began to dissipate gradually, until only John and Sherlock were left. 

John sighed and inhaled deeply, letting out a choked sob. He couldn’t hold it in any longer. He didn’t want to be strong anymore. He…

‘It’s fine,’ Sherlock said quietly, beside him. ‘It’s all fine.’ 

John turned his eyes away from the recently put gravestone and looked at Sherlock, who nodded solemnly. With another choked sob, John brought a hand to his eyes and let it go. Standing in a cemetery, letting tears stream down his face freely once more, it was all too familiar, and still too painful. But this time, Sherlock was beside him. And, moving closer, he took John’s right hand and just held it, a comfortable weight that said everything from “I’m here and I don’t judge you” to “it’s going to be okay” and “I love you”. John squeezed back, grateful for this presence to ground him because he hated this, he hated it so much. 

And there they stood, until the rain stopped and left them cold and sodden, and a little while after that, holding hands because it was all they needed right now.


End file.
